


Children Go Where I SEND Thee

by willowoak_walker



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Ace character, M/M, OFC - Freeform, Sentinels and Guides are known, prequel fic, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowoak_walker/pseuds/willowoak_walker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ordinarily, zoned-out Sentinels were perfectly willing to stay in a quiet room and recover their composure while you tried to find a willing Guide.</p><p>Ordinarily, Guides in psuedo-military organizations had spent enough time with their soul in animal form to know what it was.</p><p>Ordinarily, super-secret spy organizations manipulating governments are the stuff of conspiracy theory.</p><p>SHIELD gave up on ordinary some time ago.</p><p>Which doesn't mean that Fury is used to having random Sentinels follow his people home and then vanish into thin air. That's a bit beyond "not ordinary". It might even be classed as "unusual".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Shall I Send Thee?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Acquisition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/432776) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> Betad by the amazing [ wannabequeen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wannabequeen/pseuds/wannabequeen)! Any remaining mistakes my own.

Clint went with them because he'd zoned out too far to think consciously and they smelled nice. They directed him toward a room, and he sat down on the bench inside for a bit. He drank, because he was thirsty and they'd given him a cup of water. They talked to him, but so quietly he couldn't hear. He wasn't really coherent enough to lip-read, and besides, they kept turning away. He did catch something about a Guide, though, so he nodded.

The big black man with the eyepatch patted him on the shoulder. Clint didn't wince too hard. Then they left him alone in the room with his cup of water. He finished it, and poured himself another.

The Guide didn't show up. Clint could still smell him, though, so he wandered over to the door.  
It was locked.

Clint started freaking out. The lock on the door was too complex for him to pick this soon out of a zone. He looked around the room frantically.

The ventilation!

The opening to the duct was big enough, and not locked. Clint had to take off his bow to fit, but he could manage it. He climbed in, and closed the grating behind him. Then he wandered around in the ductwork until he found where the wonderful smell was coming from.

***

Coulson was doing paperwork. He was doing very complicated paperwork which required his full attention. This would always be his excuse for how he slipped into bonding relaxation without noticing. Handily, it was even true.

Figuring out the best way to allocate the money from donors and how to report the expenditures to them without scaring them was quite tricky. Hill had dumped it on him after Fury started demanding she do things like plan operations and training scenarios. This was undeniably a good use of their mutual time; Coulson was good at number-juggling, and Hill designed the best training scenarios known to humankind.

Coulson was in his office doing complex mathematics of both the economic and psychological varieties when the Sentinel they'd just brought in got loose. So he didn't notice when the Sentinel started approaching him through the ducts.

He just relaxed slightly. His headache went away. He felt more alert. He assumed it was just the anti-migraine medication he'd taken that morning finally kicking in.

He worked better without the pounding pain behind his eyes. That was inarguable. He reached the point in his work at which he had promised himself a coffee break a good ten minutes earlier than he had planned.

He conscientiously logged out of his computer before leaving the office and made sure all paperwork was tucked into locked drawers. He nodded absently to the Agent in the ventilation on his way out.

***

Clint watched as the Guide left the office. Now that he couldn't see the man, he felt twitchy again. He opened the screen on the vent and climbed carefully out into the room. There was a chair by the door, where he wouldn't be obvious to anyone entering the room. Clint sat in it.

He put his bow down, but rested his quiver across his lap. Arrows could be decent short-range weapons in a pinch, and the room was too small for proper shooting.

Clint breathed slowly and deeply, stretching his senses to try to sense the Guide's return. He actually smelled the man coming even before the change in air pressure as the door opened. 

***

Coulson came back in and noticed that his supervising Agent had left the ventilation and was now seated in The Chair. The chair-for-agents-who-don't-feel-safe-even-in-headquarters, that is. Coulson handed him the unopened bottle of Sentinel-safe lemonade he'd picked up at the coffee station. He'd also gotten himself a bottle of water.

He usually drank coffee to help with the headaches, but right now he didn't seem to need it. Besides, Fury had begun calling him Agent Caffeine, and it was always nice to annoy his boss.

Of course, taking water also meant that he could use the five minutes he usually spent brewing decent coffee looking into hearing aids.

It was when Coulson went into the personnel files to look up the extent of the Agent's hearing loss that he realized something was wrong. He didn't know the man's name.

***

Clint looked up from the problem of the lemonade as the Guide turned around in his swivel chair. Well. That was somewhat menacing. The Guide was looking at him as if he were a problem without an obvious solution. It was the way Clint had been looking at the lemonade.

It was rather intimidating, especially since the problem Clint presented was unlikely to be as simple as “How do I quietly open a bottle with a molded top without breaking anything or putting down my weapons or asking if the Guide has a bottle opener?”

The Guide sighed visibly. “I gave you that to drink,” he remarked sardonically. He'd spoken in a normal tone of voice. Clint was relieved. He was really tired of the really quiet really toneless voices people seemed to think they had to use around Sentinels, and not just because he couldn't fucking hear them.

“Don't have a bottle opener,” Clint said. The Guide turned back to his desk, opened a drawer, and turned around again bottle opener in hand.

“Trade you this for your name,” he offered wryly. Clint considered this. He was usually pretty wary about giving his name out, but he felt safe here. Safe with this man, in his personal space. Which reminded Clint that he'd just kind of spied on the guy and then randomly showed up in his office. The Guide had every reason to want to know his name.

“Clinton Barton,” he said, holding out his hand for the opener.

“Phillip Coulson,” the Guide said, and gave it to him.


	2. I'm Gonna Send You One By One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury is going to be intolerable.

A Helicarrier-wide alert went out over the PA just as Clint opened his lemonade. He jumped when the voice began.

**“All Agents, Alert, Alert, Unauthorized Sentinel Loose on Helicarrier.”** (Clint looked sheepish at that. He wasn't sure what a Helicarrier was, but he was definitely somewhere he wasn't supposed to be.) **“Locate and Return to Sentinel Care on Level 5: Sentinel Appears to Be Searching For a Guide with whom He Has Formed a Preliminary Bond. Be Alert.”**

Clint drank the lemonade and pretended that didn’t have anything to do with him. 

***

Coulson looked at Age-- at Barton. The man had become guilty when Fury announced there was an unauthorized Sentinel around. That was suspicious. More, he wasn’t listed in SHIELD’s personnel files.

So clearly he was the unauthorized Sentinel, and not the latest iteration of Fury’s little game of “send the new agents to watch Coulson and see how long he takes to notice”. Well. That was embarrassing.  


And left them with the question of “where have I seen this man?” most pressingly on his mind. He knew he had seen him; he’d recognized both psychic aura and face. Still, first things first. He had to call Fury. 

***

The Guide -- Phillip, and Clint was totally not going to call him Phillip no matter how intimidating he was, so , Phil, Philly, Phillycheesesteak (maybe that was pushing it a bit far) -- _Phil_ seemed totally unphased by the announcement, as if he didn’t even realize that the strange Sentinel sitting in his office was the one who was totally not authorized to be there. Or as though this was totally normal, as though he got strange random Sentinels just wandering into his office all the time, and it was no big deal. Maybe he was a Lure-Guide, Clint had heard of those, in Sentinel locker-room talk, strange people with anglerfish for souls who just talked Sentinels into following them, leaving everything they loved for a pleasant smell and a musical voice and -- No. if Phil had been a Lure-Guide, if they were even real, Clint would have run away from the circus to follow him the first time he showed up outside the big top, looking like he stepped out of a recruiting poster. He’d chatted to Clint as he waited for the last of the drunk soldiers out past curfew he’d come to collect to put his clothes back on.  


“You should join the army,” he’d said,”We can always use a shot like you, and it would be better than this.” And Clint had looked around at the ratty tents that made up the circus when the audience left, and thought he was right. And then he’d thought of Barney, who loved it there, and stayed.  


He’d realized his mistake, later. But Phil hadn’t exactly left a calling card.  


That time.

***

Phil glanced back at Clinton, who was staring at his half-drunk lemonade as if it contained the secrets of the universe, just to see if he could remember who he was. Clinton Barton, Clinton Barton, Clinton, really? Who named their child after a town?  


And now he had it. Sentinel Clinton Barton (really) was Hawkeye, the sharpshooter who grew up in a circus. The one who was the prize of his Marine units when his CO had sense, the one who seemed to always end up in trouble for insubordination. The one Phil had been trying to recruit for years. That one.  


Fury was going to be _intolerable._  


Phil still had to call him.  


He didn’t have to make it easy, though. The Chair (and, therefore, Clint) was already half hidden from the camera by Phil’s own body, but he could make it totally invisible. He moved the camera from the top of the computer, where he usually kept it, to place it on the desk so that it looked up at his face. This was the position he used when video chatting particularly annoying politicians. Such people are slightly unnerved by talking to someone “taller” than them. He had just such a call on his plate today, in fact, attempting to convince Senator Therecliffe that they needed more scientific grants and lab space, not more tanks.  


Moving the camera also happened to hide both The Chair and its occupant, who coughed slightly as Phil reached for the call button.

***

Whoops. His little clearing the throat gesture had gotten Phil’s full attention. Clint wasn’t sure he could handle the weight of Phil’s intent stare. He plastered on his dutiful soldier face. Phil looked at him.  


“Sir,” dutifulsoldierdutifulsoldier, “May I ask if your soul has a preferred animal form?” He seemed to have hit one of Phil’s buttons with that: the man went slightly tense. Bother. Clint was putting his lemonade down so he could apologise properly when Phil began to answer.  


“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he said, “It’s never shown itself. Does yours? A hawk?” Oh. Okay. That was slightly worrying. Or totally terrifying, Clint wasn’t sure. Souls tended to take animal form when you were in distress, so either Phil’s soul was somehow hard to spot (unlikely) or he hadn’t ever been in enough distress. That last option was disturbing. And didn’t mean he wasn’t the beast from Clint’s nightmares.  


As for his own soul-form: well. He heard that joke before.  


“An owl, sir, actually.”


	3. One For the Baby Born in Bethlehem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They chat. Slightly ominously, but what do you expect?

Coulson nodded as if he’d expected nothing else. He’d once met an absolutely terrifying woman whose soul took the shape of a bobtailed squid. An owl made perfectly good sense.  


“Should I take your sudden appearance here as an acceptance of my job offer?” he asked.  


“The one where I join you in your top-secret spec-ops organization with no idea what I’m getting into?” Barton’s amusement was palpable, “The one that made my CO glare at you as if he thought being hard of hearing made me blind? The one which would let me use my bow as a tool instead of a toy? The slightly ominous one? That job offer?” Coulson nodded. “Do I have a choice?”  


“Of course you do. It’s a bad choice, but it is a choice. You can go back to your unit. We’ll smooth everything over with your CO, tell him that we kidnapped you for a special mission, and your life goes back to normal.” It was true, of course. He wasn’t in the business of kidnapping people and making them do things. He just made people offers they couldn’t refuse. Except Barton. Barton was a problem.  


“Why would that be a bad choice?” Yup. Problem. No sense of self-preservation. None. Which was going to be an issue, but first things first.  


“Because they’re going to keep trying to get you to have sex with nice eligible Guides,” -- and you’re asexual, not that that was his to say -- “And making you stand and fight or pilot drones or guard caravans by walking along in front with a machinegun. Because they’re sloppy. And there is nothing, Clinton Barton, that you hate like imprecision.” With the obvious exception of neglectful or abusive parents. 

***

Clint had to admit that Phil had a point. He was really tired of being encouraged to “just spend time” with some nice Guide the military thought would make him a better asset. It was especially annoying now that they’d realized he had no interest in women. The male Guides were nice, but the women had usually been slightly relieved when he told them he didn’t want to have sex. Usually.  


“And you people aren’t sloppy?” Everyone was occasionally sloppy. Clint knew that far too well.  


“Sometimes. I confess, some of our newer agents aren’t actually housetrained,” Clint had to snort at that, “But everyone is expected to point it out and help prevent it. I expect you will,” Clint looked at him, “excuse me, _would_ , be remarkably good at it.”  


Clint let the silence stretch for several moments. He picked up his lemonade and drank without looking away from Phil.

***

Barton’s stare was highly flirtatious. Challenging. Coulson would have liked to pursue the contest. He was willing to bet that he could outwait Barton in this tight space. Unfortunately, he was on a deadline.  


“I need to call Director Fury. Shall I tell him you’re considering my offer?”  


“Nah,” Barton said, “Tell him I accepted.”


	4. I SAID One By One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, sorry.

Coulson called Fury. His commander’s face appeared on his screen moment later, tetchy as ever.

“This better be fuckin’ important, Phil, we’ve got a minor crisis on.”

“Oh, it is,” Phil smiled, “Hawkeye has decided to accept my job offer.”

“Well, thank God,” Fury snarled, “some good news at last. What’d the Marines do to drive him over the line? Nevermind, tell me later. I’ll get a pilot to go pick him up. Stationed in Afghanistan, wasn’t he?” Phil resisted the urge to grin like the cat who caught the canary.

“No need, sir, he’s here.”

Fury blinked at him for a moment. Then he cackled. “I should fire you for this. Dump you out in the cold world where you have to actually work for a living,” -- as if, Coulson thought, he wasn’t working at SHIELD -- “You got him to come in with the mission team, didn’t you? Should have known. Sentinels don’t just follow Guides around like lost puppies. Of course you had a hand in it. So, where is he?”

Phil sighed. “Actually, sir, sometimes, they do. And vice versa. It depends on how healthy we are. An ill or injured Sentinel or Guide is actually quite likely to just follow someone around, if that someone seems safe. You’ll get that from allosensors, too, it’s just more common in hypersensors.”

“Phil, Phil, you destroy all my illusions. Stop it. I like my illusions. More importantly, goddammit man, answer my question!”

“When I said he was here, sir, I meant here.” Phil picked up the camera, and turned with it so that Barton was visible. 

***

Clint waved tiredly at the camera. He plastered on his most shit-eating grin, and tried not to look as if he hadn’t slept in -- how long had it been since he last slept? Clint couldn’t really count sensory fuge as “sleep”, however much he’d like to.

The angry man on the computer angered some more. Phil didn’t seem too concerned about it, though, so Clint decided not to worry. He wasn’t exactly in a state that let him fix things, in any case.

He’d just go to sleep for a bit. Phil would take care of him.

***

Barton waved at the camera and grinned hugely. Coulson chuckled quietly and turned back to his conversation with the Commander. He put the camera back on the desk and prepared to get yelled at.


	5. One by One Doesn't Work?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson gets told off.

“Phil.” Fury said sternly, “Have you gone and formed a preliminary bond with a civ?” Coulson decided that pointing out that Barton was military, just not SHIELD, would be childish. So would denying that he (obviously) had formed some sort of bond with the man -- Barton had just gone to sleep in his office. 

Which was slightly adorable, actually, but also worrying. Just how exhausted was the Sentinel? And, when he was awake enough to think clearly again, would he feel that he’d been tricked or trapped into SHIELD?

“Yes, sir,” Phil admitted, “And I realize it was a bad idea. Hawkeye just fell asleep in my chair, sir, I really don’t think we can hold him to his acceptance until he’s had a chance to think it over. While not fatigue-addled.” Fury stared at him.

“Am I going to lose you to the Marines if this sharp-shooter changes his mind when he wakes up and realizes what a bunch of fuck-heads we are?”

“No, sir, I am not going to join the Marines as a line Guide and fight in the war I have spent the last ten years trying to get the US out of. The only way to get me out of SHIELD is to start using the kind of my-country-right-or-wrong attitude we all hate. I’d just have to actually use some of the personal leave that I’ve been building up.”


	6. Interlude: Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has a dream

It was the nightmare again. Well, the dream, Clint supposed, it wasn't a nightmare yet. This time. He was his screech owl self, flying in the hours before sunrise over a body of water. He was exhausted.

This was how the dream always went. He thought the water was a river, but if so it was a very wide one. He could only barely see the land at any point, but it seemed to be equally distant in three directions. Clint was flying the other direction. The landless direction. North.

He turned himself around in a long banking turn and began flying east. Not that the land there was easiest to reach – he'd only ever reached the south bank – but there was a forest on the east bank. Much better habitat for a screech owl than the plains on the south bank.

He flew. He was always tired when the dream began, but it had been getting worse over the past months, and soon enough he began to lose altitude. In what seemed like moments his wingtips were brushing the surface of the water with every stroke. It might have been hours, though. Dream-time stretched and shrank senselessly.

Clint flew on anyway. If he was lucky he might wake before the fish caught up. But no, he could here it splashing behind him. Sloppy, but then, he was easy prey. Adrenalin let him pull up from the water a few inches, even with his wet wings. He was straining so hard he didn't notice the animal until he ran into it.

He flopped onto the animal's broad back, exhausted. The creature hardly seemed to notice. Clint spread his wet wings out above the water and panted. The fish thrust its ugly head out of the water at him, sharp teeth glinting viciously in the beginnings of dawn. Then it bit the animal Clint was riding. His mount swung around toward the irritation, nearly tipping him off. Then it snapped at the snake-head.

The vicious fish flew into the air in bloody fragments. Several of them landed on the beast's back. Clint ate one, smugly.


	7. I'm Gonna Send You Two By Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure whatever Clint is plotting is a bad idea. Also, please forgive my ignorance of sign. Concrit or directions to grammar resources would be greatly appreciated!  
> Continues unbetad.

Clint woke up in a hospital bed. He was not in pain. This was strange. Why was he in a hospital bed if he wasn’t injured?

Hostile situation? He didn’t open his eyes -- there was no sense in revealing that he was awake just yet. Instead he scented the air, breathing in through nose and mouth alternately to get taste and smell both engaged. 

Hospital smells, yes. Guide, PHIL, Phil had been here, but wasn’t now. Probably not hostile, then. There was another Guide here, female, menstruating, annoyed, on medication of some kind, injured. 

Injured!

Clint’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, scanning the Guide to see what the matter was. The Guide was sitting on a chair, one foot propped up on another chair. That leg was in a cast. It appeared to be entirely professional. The Guide was armed: a handgun. 

Clint decided he didn’t need to freak out right then. He glanced around the room, looking for his bow. It was on the chair next to his bed. That was handy.   
Then he looked back at the Guide, who was gesturing for his attention.

“ASL?” the Guide was signing.

“YES” Clint replied, “MY NAME IS C-L-I-N-T, BOW-BIRD,” then added, “MAN,” on the grounds that it was worth a try.

“MY NAME IS S-A-R-A, WOMAN,” the Guide signed back. Clint grinned. She might not be up on trans shit, but at least she wasn’t freaking out at him. Sara was continuing, “C-O-U-L-S-O-N,” so that was how you spelled it, “SAY I STAY BOW-BIRD, EAT.” That was slightly cryptic, wasn’t it? 

“I EAT?” he inquired, and got a nod. Hooray. “DEAF YOU?” He rather thought not.

“NO,” Sarah said, “HEARING I. I LEARN SIGN COMPUTER DEAF COUSIN.” Clint nodded. 

“Let’s go find food, or Coulson,” he suggested, in English, “whichever is easier.” Sara started to get her crutches under her and stand up. Clint put a hand on her arm and stopped her. “Point me at it,” he suggested.

“WHAT?” she signed.

“Wheelchair,” he said, “There’s got to be one around here somewhere -- and you can’t shoot using crutches. I can lipread, by the way.”

“I shouldn’t need to shoot,” she said, looking up at him, “We’re in headquarters. The wheelchair …” He missed the end of her comment as she looked down and in the direction she was pointing. But there was a folded up wheelchair between those two cupboards, so he went to have a look at it. It seemed acceptable. Clint turned around and checked in with Sara. “This?”   
Sara nodded and signed “YES” at the same time. Clint got the wheelchair out and open for her, and picked up his bow and quiver as she opened the door. 

This was gonna be fun.


	8. Two for Paul and Silas

“Commander, I cite Rule 3 of the Statement of Sentinel Rights, to wit, ‘No Sentinel shall serve under an officer who cannot adequately care for said Sentinel.’ I note further that the state in which Sentinel Barton was located is indicative of extreme distress.”

The Marine officer on the other side of the screen nodded.”Yes. He had just been transferred to a new unit to make better use of his skill,” which was not what it said in the records -- he’d have to check with Clint about that, “and was having some trouble adapting.” Which was true in sort of the same way that ‘fish have trouble adapting to bicycles’ was true.

Coulson pointed out that this was just a courtesy warning, as the situation had already been brought to Disability Services’ attention. “Of course, they will decide what to do with the medical records we have sent them. In previous incidents, Disability Services has requested that we bring the injured party to one of their stations for assessment.”

“The -- Disability Services.” The Commander looked enlightened. “Of course, if Sergeant Barton is having medical problems he must get treatment, and Disability Service has the experience required to see him properly cared for. I’ll get back to you when I have their report, Mr. Coulson. Good evening.” She hung up.

Coulson blinked, and made a note to keep an eye on that officer. Either she didn’t notice when she was being threatened, or she had balls of steel. Or no foresight.

Disability Services might ordinarily be an overworked pushover, but the Sentinel Department had been gathering strength in recent years. Ticking off a bunch of Guides was always a bad plan, but ticking off a bunch of Guides the First Lady listened to was probably worse. 

But maybe the Marine’d had to deal with Disability Services before, because of Barton’s hearing damage. That would have given her a reduced idea of their threat potential.  
Well. In any case, he had some business to take care of. Before Barton had wandered in, he’d been looking forward to this all week. Now he wished it had been rescheduled so that he could be there when his Sentinel woke up.

The owl fluttered down and perched on his shoulder as he left his office.

***

By the time they got to the Sensory Safe Dining Hall, Clint had realized that Sara thought he was totally deaf. He let her keep thinking that. Someone might say something interesting that he could hear.

Stranger things had happened. Like Clint wandering around in a secured secret base by accident without anyone noticing except Phil. Who hadn’t cared. Anyway, food. Then Phil.

It wasn’t smart to go hunting hungry.

Sara waved at him as they entered the food service area. He looked at her and waited. “Self serve” she said slowly, “seats are through that door. I need to get a tray.” Clint nodded.  
“I understand,” he said, and turned to look at the food options. Halal, Kosher, vegetarian, vegan -- he was impressed. Not that any of it looked restaurant quality, but what did you expect. Clint started loading up a plate. He’d anything that wasn’t rotting. 

Sara had been intercepted by another Guide at the end of the counter. Clint could hear some of what the new guide said.   
“Why didn’t you call out for food?” he asked. Clint piled beans and rice next to his stir-fry. Never too much protein.

“He asked for food or Coulson,” Sara said, “do you want to tell a man who has been known to wander into air-ducts when left alone to sit quiet and wait for another stranger arrive?”

“You were there,” the stranger scolded, “and you could have called for Coulson as well.”

“Could not,” Sara retorted, “He’s doing one of his _things_ again.” _‘His things again’_ Clint thought, _should I worry?_

Logically, there wasn’t a reason to. Phil had been doing fine without him for the past four years.

Logic had never been Clint’s strong point. He’d have to be quick with his food.


	9. One For the Little Baby, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sara gets the official "important character" stamp.

Clint was eating briskly and efficiently, without appearing to care about taste. Sara made a mental note of that. He had clearly dropped dealing with taste/smell-input to the bottom of his sensory priority list. Which meant that he wasn’t suspicious of the food, but didn’t feel he had time to enjoy it. Worrying.

Sara tapped the table for his attention. He snapped his eyes up to meet hers. Very much ready for anything. 

“Coulson is on a mission,” she said slowly, “and isn’t expected back until tonight. It had been scheduled for weeks, and no one else could do it.” she looked at Clint again, checking for comprehension. He nodded, and gestured her to go on. “He left the job offer for you to look at, and said you could wait in his quarters if you wanted. I can take you there.” 

She watched Clint contemplate that. He was still eating. 

“When is he expected back?” If Clint was just worried about Coulson, that was normal Sentinel behavior and nothing to fret about. 

“Earliest is nine, we aren’t supposed to worry until 2 in the morning.” 

Clint nodded. “Where is this job offer?” he asked.

“Coulson said he’d leave a copy in his office and one on the table in his quarters. I have a temporary code which will let me through the door.” If Sara could get Clint into a space saturated with Coulson’s scent, he’d probably feel better. And it was really important that all the paperwork get filled out as soon as possible -- this ‘temporary clearance’ thing was hell on security.

Clint collected the empty plates, arranged cups and tableware carefully on top of them, stood up, and picked up the stack. “Lead the way, Lady Day,” he said.

***

Clint wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Phil’s quarters, but this wasn’t it. The place was tidy, yes, but … Clint had to wonder how much time the Guide actually spent here.

Clint was beginning to think Phil was a workaholic. Also that he _really liked_ Captain America. The Helicarrier’s steel walls were not exactly conducive to interior decorating, but Clint was getting a definite _vibe_ off what little there was.

There was a massive world map on the wall facing the door, with a series of little Captain-America-Shield magnets stuck onto it in Europe, mostly in place where something extra-Nazi had happened.

There was a poster of Captain America standing back-to-back with … Rosie the Riveter, maybe? a woman, anyway, on the perpendicular wall. There were action figures and recent comics on the bookshelves.

On the table Clint located a folder with “For Clint” written on a stickynote (blue) stuck on the front. He checked to make sure that Sara made it safely in the door and scoped out the apartment.

Bed was Phil’s, and he did sleep here. And sit on this armchair. Cereal in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Good. Bowl and spoon drying in a rack by the sink, and the whole place looked like a cross between a posh hotel, a tidy dorm room, and a steel packing crate. 

One bed. A single. Phil didn’t often have company. There were two chairs pushed up to the small table, but they were the only seating other than the armchair. Not a place for social gatherings. 

And under Captain America’s stern gaze who would dare to hold them? 

But maybe Captain America meant something different to Phil. Clint would have to ask him. You’d hardly paper your wall with “not good enough,” now would you?  
Clint shifted the chair so that the poster wasn’t facing him before starting in on the folder.


	10. Going Where He Sends Me

Coulson was really regretting having become Fury’s go-to recruiter. _Dig a good ditch and they give you a bigger shovel_ , he thought ruefully. Still, he did like his job. It got him out of the office, let him meet new people, and permitted him to give a great big fuck you to stupid officers.

Or mob bosses, in this case. If you couldn’t take care of your people, you didn’t deserve to keep them.

Phil put his feet up on the table and pretended to be actually drinking the crappy beer. His contact was right on time, and absolutely in character. Her suit would have been totally out of place here if she hadn’t been a regular. 

Phil gave her a convincingly intimidated look, partly to stay in character and partly because she was intimidating.

She sat down across from him without waiting for an invitation, and a waiter hurried over with her drink. When he’d left, Phil handed over the folder he’d brought with him.

She looked through it without touching her screwdriver. Her face softened slightly when she got to the letter. 

Phil hadn’t read it, not being a rude bastard, but the number of times the child who’d written it had asked when her big sister was going to visit meant that it was probably fucking adorable. 

His contact looked sharply up at him. “And when am I going to be able to see my sister, Agent?” she demanded.

“Next week Tuesday, if all goes according to plan,” Phil said. It was good to be able to finally give an exact date. “The field trip to the museum is on Monday. Can you get free time then? I know how much Latasha is looking forward to seeing you.”

She nodded. “I’m free from one to five on Mondays. Where will I meet you?”

“Why don’t you join us at the museum?” Coulson suggested, “We’ll be getting there at around 2, and going in by the accessible entrance.”

“I’ll see you there,” she said, and stalked out the door like a panther.

***  
Setting up SHIELD’s end of the extraction was a great deal harder. Even the information the Panther had provided didn’t make it easy to break into an international weapons dealer’s fortress. 

Just possible. Well, possible with Sitwell’s work. Coulson nodded to Sitwell as he walked into the parking lot.

“Evening, Julio,” he said mildly, “donut?” Jasper Sitwell responded promptly to the assumed name. He took a donut between long fingers heavy with gold rings and stared at it dubiously. Wealthy gunrunners probably didn’t eat gas-station minidonuts that often.

“I’d forgotten your habit of feeding everyone, not seeing you for so long,” he remarked, “But this is business, Fred, I can’t eat on duty. Thank you, though,” he said, giving the donut back. Phil sighed and ate it himself. “Sorry,” Jasper said with patent insincerity, “But I can talk, anyway. How’s your girlfriend?” 

Coulson sighed again. “Oh, you know. Concerned about her sister. Waking up at two in the morning and tripping over the wheelchair because she just has to make some new piece of modern art. She’s leaving me, Julio.”

Sitwell shook his head. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Women, huh?” He’d said worse things for jobs before. Phil nodded morosely, then looked up at the car driving in. It was a battered white van that didn’t look very out of place behind the battered diner. 

“Is that them?” he asked. Sitwell waved elegantly to the driver, who waved back.

“Calm down, idiot,” he said, “We’re just two old friends who wanted some quiet to eat donuts and complain about women. No need to jump at everything. But yes, that’s the boss.”

Phil folded up the donut package and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn’t bother to hide his nerves -- Julio’s boss would expect a civilian to be nervous. After all, what if the “Prince” decided he couldn’t be bothered to pay for the guns? What could a factory manager far out of his comfort zone do about it?

“Are you really sure this is a safe place?” he asked Julio, trying not to fidget.

“I didn’t pick it,” Julio said, “But I trust the one who did. Hola, sir.” This last was directed at the man who had just climbed out of the car. 

The gunrunner stalked toward them menacingly. It was so blatantly threatening that it was almost funny. Phil was in more danger from Sitwell, standing calm and relaxed, than he was from this tense marionette. Which didn’t mean that the Prince wasn’t dangerous.

Just that he lacked taste.

***

The sting came at just the right time; Phil was unloading the box of machine-guns from his trunk, and the pistols had already been packed into the Prince’s van.

It was blatantly illegal.

 

Phil got steered to a different holding cell from the runners. When they were safely out of hearing range, his arresting officer slapped him on the back and thanked him for his good service.

“I’m really sorry this happened to you,” she told him, “But we’ve made the best of it we can. Maybe your friend will be more moral when he gets out of prison. We don’t have any previous record for him.”

Phil smiled, and made appropriate noises. He wanted to go. She caught on quickly, and sent him back to his hotel room after a cursory interview.

He walked three blocks after the police officer left, got in the car Agent Droushnakovi was driving for him, and slept through the ride back to HQ. 

The Helicarrier was a five-minute flight away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know, folks.


	11. How Will He Send Me?

The job offer was alternately threatening, depressing, and hysterical. Clint felt like Bilbo Baggins. Or as if he were buying some kind of really expensive software.  
He signed it anyway.  
He’d signed his soul away at the age of eight. Doing it again wouldn’t make that much of a difference.  
And besides, he trusted Phil. Eventually, you just had to trust someone.  
Trying not to trust people didn’t actually help. He’d tried.  
“So,” he said to Sara with a brittle smile, “Where do you think Phil keeps his commemorative Captain America cards?”

***

It was 10:15 when Coulson opened the door to his quarters. Barton was sitting at the table with Agent Doraviv, playing cards. They were using his 60th anniversary Howling Commandos deck, which had been easy to acquire and wasn’t that special anyway. He couldn’t tell what they’d been playing because they were both staring at him.  
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, “Or are you two having a ‘who can be more sheepish’ competition?”  
“You smell like guns,” Barton said, “and frightened, angry people. Did it go alright?” Ah.  
“It went fine,” Coulson said, “The guns were part of the plan, and not pointed at me, and the frightened people were enemies. How’ve you been?”  
Barton shrugged. “I ate. Sara brought me here. I read this,” he gestured to the folder, “and sold my soul to SHIELD for a job worth doing and a decent medical program. It wasn’t clear -- am I still an American citizen?” So he’d been stressed out by being alone in a strange place. Coulson really wished Barton had turned up a day earlier. But no-- he’d been out of the office yesterday. And he would be tomorrow. Although that was a family commitment, so he could take Barton with him. _Did my Sentinel turn up during an unusually busy time, or is my life always like this?_ he wondered.  
“As of now, you are still an American,” Coulson said, going to stand beside Barton and resting a hand on the archer’s shoulder. “You’ll only lose citizenship if we need to declare your core identity dead for some reason.” He looked at Agent Doraviv, who was gathering up the cards from their game. “Thank you, Agent. I’m sorry to have interrupted your sick leave.”  
“Oh, no trouble, sir,” Doraviv said, “I was bored out of my mind! If you need any other handsome Sentinels squired around by someone non-threatening, do call on me.” Barton snorted discretely at this description.  
“Be careful saying such things, Agent Doraviv,” Coulson warned, “I might take you up on them.”  
She sobered. “No, really, sir,” she said, “inoffensive guiding Guide is a role I like playing. And I’m getting terribly bored with nothing to do. Besides, it’s a good way to make friends.”  
“Oh, dear,” Coulson murmured, looking between the two of them, “What have I unleashed? I will bear that in mind, Doraviv, if we get any more sudden recruits,” when we get more sudden recruits, “but I have to ask you to leave now.”  
“Oh, yeah!” Doraviv grinned, “You’ve gotta figure out where you are going to sleep.” She put the neatly stacked cards on the table, and began rolling herself toward the door. Barton squeezed Coulson’s hand, and stood up to see her out.  
“Night, Sara,” he said, “Thanks for showing me around. I’ll see you later for that Fish game.”  
“It’s a promise,” Doraviv said, “Bring the boyfriend.” Coulson wondered if Barton was on first-name basis with everyone as the door shut behind her.  
Then the two of them were alone together again.

***

Now, this was the point when, if he were an allosexual, he would grab Phil and kiss the living daylights out of him.  
He wasn’t.  
He said, “I’m grey-asexual, Phil. I don’t really do the sex thing.”

Phil nodded. “I thought you might be. I really don’t care enough about sex to label myself, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Besides, Doraviv’s right, we have a more immediate one. There is no way both of us will fit on my bed.” And then, he flushed, which was kind of hysterical, and said, “For sleep.” Clint considered leaving him to wallow in embarrassment for a moment. Phil’s so collected he doesn’t think he’ll get to see it often. But he has mercy -- he’s tired, and he wants to sleep.  
“I figured. I’ll take the floor.” Phil’s bed is one of those marshmallows Clint’s never been really comfortable with. He’d checked. Which maybe was rude, but fuck that, why yes, I was raised in a barn, why do you ask?  
Phil raised an eyebrow at him. “SHIELD owes you a bed according to your contract. There are empty rooms for short stays; one of us could get one of them.”  
“Pffft. You sleep in your bed, I’ll sleep on your floor. I’ve slept on worse.” Clint is not leaving Phil alone again. He’s done that for long enough, thanks.  
“Blankets.” Phil says firmly, and starts rustling through the closet. Clint has enough sense to take them, even if it is warm enough here that he doesn’t need them.  
He’s learned a lot about Guide instincts over the years.  
Most of them are nice enough.

***

Coulson was not enthused about letting Barton sleep on the floor, but he was also not in favor of letting the man out of his sight any longer than he needs to. Barton has an annoying habit of sneaking away, and a worrying one of not taking care of himself.  
“I need to shower,” Coulson said, “There are blankets here-- make yourself a nest. You might fit my pajamas, they’re in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Dirty clothes in the basket.” He held Barton’s gaze for a moment to make sure that his orders were received. Barton nodded, and came over to the closet. Good enough.  
Coulson showered quickly. When he got out, Barton was standing stock-still, staring at a blanket. Bother.  
“Clint?” he said, reaching out to touch the Sentinel’s arm, “I grant you that is a truly bizarre shade of green, but you don’t need to keep staring at it.” He took a step closer, hoping it wouldn’t be too hard to pull Barton out of the zone.  
For all that he’d been dealing with military Sentinels for years, Coulson was still surprised when Barton came out swinging.  
He’d been expecting a violent reaction. He just hadn’t expected to suddenly be standing back-to-back with Barton at the end of it. Shoved protectively behind, that had happened a couple times, treated as a threat, yes, but this was new.  
“Breath, Barton,” he said calmly, “You zoned out, that’s all. Nothing’s wrong. You can stand down. We’re safe here.” He hoped Barton’s impaired hearing could catch his voice; turning around to use sign might trigger another violent reaction.  
But whether Barton could hear him or not, the Sentinel’s instincts had let conscious mind out to play.  
“Ah,” Barton said, a little too loudly. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”  
“I bet,” Coulson said, “Why don’t you shower, now? We can talk in the morning.” Barton hugged him hard on the way to the bathroom.  
It was nice.


	12. Two by Two

Clint woke up as the smell of coffee reached him. It took him a moment to re-orient -- on the floor, near an object, smell of coffee, smell of Phil -- aha. Phil's room on the Helicarrier, and his first day as a SHIELD agent. Wee. Clint got up. 

"Clothes" he said, and stuck his arms out in front of himself like a B-movie zombie, "Clooooooothes." Phil was in the little kitchen thing, and turned around with raised eyebrows. Clint wondered idly what it would take to make him laugh, and kept clothes-zombieing toward him. "Clooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooothes." Phil put the coffee mug down on the counter mere moments before Clint walked into him. He snorted amusement, and steadied them. Clint decided that totally counted. 

"Good morning," Phil said, right next to his ear. "I didn't expect you to be a morning person." 

"I'm a clothes zombie." Clint retorted hotly, "Not a morning person. I'm a clothes zombie and I like sleep."

***

Coulson grinned into Barton's shoulder. Phyllis was going to be enjoy this. Clothes zombies might not have featured prominently in their shared childhood, but that would be easily rectified for Phyllis's children. Assuming they hadn't come across the concept already. The last time Phil had seen them, they had been more interested in taking clothes off than putting them on, though.

"Right," Coulson said, and stood away from his Sentinel, "Clothes, food, and plans. See if anything in my closet fits you, and I'll get breakfast ready." Barton stuck his tongue out, and headed back toward the dresser. Coulson took the toast out of the toaster and hunted through his cabinets for the spare bowl.

Barton came back fully dressed as Coulson dug set out the oranges. He was wearing a pair of pants Coulson mostly used when playing a bricklayer, and the Princess and the Frog shirt his nephew had given him. Oh, boy. Phyllis was going to get a kick out of this. Which reminded him, Barton might not actually want to go to a strange woman's birthday party. 

"You look good," Coulson said, buttering his toast a few minutes later. Barton signed THANKS at him absently. "We have to do a lot of things to work out how you will work best with SHIELD," Coulson continued, "But today is my sister's birthday, and I promised to go to her party." Barton looked up, face falling. Coulson hurried on. "Would you be willing to come? I'd like it if you could." 

"Why?" Barton asked after a few moments.

"Why do I want you to come?" Phil asked, and got a nod in answer. "Because you're my Sentinel, and part of my family. Because I think my sister will like you. Because I don't want to leave you alone again." _Because we should have been doing this for years._

***

Guide instincts, Clint thought, and watched Phil intently. Guide instincts. Protect the Sentinel. Claim the Sentinel. Ground the Sentinel. Socialize the Sentinel. Discover the full potential of the Sentinel. Clint rubbed his hands over his face, and wished he wasn't afraid of the absence of fear. He'd met too many people who seemed safe and weren't to trust easily. 

Too many bad Guides.

But.

"I would like to meet your sister." Clint managed, and watched Phil relax. _Allies,_ Clint thought, _Data._

_You aim better when you can see the target._


End file.
